


the professor

by bluebeholder



Series: the accidental epic [38]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: (again), Diagon Alley, F/M, Family Reunions, Foreshadowing, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Literally Wall To Wall Foreshadowing, M/M, Obscurus As Mental Illness Metaphor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 21:17:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13960212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: The year is 1930 and Credence has been smuggled (via Newt's suitcase) into Diagon Alley to discuss matters of great importance.And then comes a very unexpected visitor.





	the professor

**Author's Note:**

> The FB2 trailer drops in like an hour.
> 
> I'm racing a deadline here and I'm going to be late to a dentist appointment.
> 
> And there should be another fic later today.

Credence can’t help nerves. It’s been more than a year since he last saw all of his friends as anything more than occasional heads in a fireplace. He’ll be seeing them in London—a place he’s assiduously avoided, even feared. And, worst of all, he’ll be seeing them without Percival.

Saying goodbye had been even worse than Credence feared, when the plan had come together for the first time. Percival absolutely could not go to London: he’ll be maintaining the façade that Credence is where he’s supposed to be. Newt had arrived with the suitcase, ready to take Credence away for the fortnight, and had courteously waited outside while Credence and Percival faced each other in the kitchen in dead silence.

“You’ll enjoy yourself in London,” Percival said at last, with an obvious effort. “It’s a good place. You won’t see the Ministry or anything, but—”

“I wouldn’t want to if I could,” Credence said, summoning up a smile. “Take care of yourself, will you? I won’t be gone so long.”

Percival gazed at Credence with a truly unreadable expression. “I won’t blame you, if you decide to stay,” he said after a long moment. “If you have the chance…”

“Stop it,” Credence said, throat suddenly choked tight. They’d had this discussion before, and Credence’s answer would always be the same. “I’m coming home to you, do you understand me?”

For a moment, Percival looked old. Really old, and really tired. The old weight was back on his shoulders, and though he carried himself as straight and proud as ever Credence could see the fear that had hold of him. “I understand,” Percival said.

In two quick steps Credence was across the room and had Percival’s face in both hands, kissing him hard. Percival returned it, holding Credence fiercely, and when they broke apart at last he held Credence there, foreheads resting together. In that moment, though Credence’s improvements to his posture have made him taller, he felt small. Felt like the boy who’d found the first safety of his life in Percival Graves’ arms.

“Forget me, while you’re there,” Percival said. “Go out and live like you’re meant to. Rise like you’re meant to. And…when you want me, Credence, when you come back down, I’ll still be here.”

Credence closed his eyes and swallowed down any tears. He kissed Percival again because he didn’t know what to say, or how to say it. And then he picked up his bag and walked out the door and climbed into Newt’s suitcase without looking back.

Now they should be arriving any moment.

The knock comes at the suitcase lid and Credence steels his nerve. He swings his bag up and climbs the ladder with it in hand, up to the lid, and pushes it open.

“Come on out now, there you are,” Newt says, taking Credence’s bag while Credence pulls himself free.

“How was the trip?” Credence asks, glancing at the walls on either side of him.

“Fine, fine,” Newt says. “Now come on, I’ve decided that we’re walking to the bakery.”

He turns and begins to walk out of the narrow way, and Credence follows. As they break out into the open air, Credence has to stop and simply _stare_. What else can he do, confronted with this world of marvels? “This…this is Diagon Alley?” he asks.

Newt smiles at him, turning around in the middle of the street, finally looking at home in his eccentric blue coat. “Yes, it is,” he says. “Welcome to the heart of wizarding London, Credence.”

The sun shines bright out of a blue sky over the long winding rows of shops and buildings. The evidence of magic is everywhere, in a way that Credence has just never seen before. He’d never seen the wizarding neighborhoods of New York, nor the Grand Crucible in St. Louis, nor even much of magical Canton since he’d rather been under house arrest at the time. This is…marvelous.

One shop has cauldrons in stacks glinting beside the door, advertising the latest in Self-Stirring enchantments. In the windows of an apothecary hang plants with eyes that wink as Credence passes; he can’t help flinching a little, though they do make him laugh. There are bookshops, and a broom seller’s with shiny and streamlined brooms standing in the window. Eeylops Owl Emporium is a dark shop from whose depths emerges a medley of hoots and the rustling of feathers.

Far up the street is a magnificent marble edifice and Newt shakes his head when Credence turns a questioning eye on him: “That’s Gringotts Bank,” he says, “no point even trying to go near there, the Aurors would have you arrested in a minute flat.”

And back come Credence’s nerves with a vengeance. Still, he can’t help staring in wonder at the windows of magical equipment, at the brilliant façade of Flourish & Blott’s, at the narrow and shabby front of a wandmaker’s store simply called “Ollivander’s”. This is a place that calls to him, that pulls at everything in his blood, telling him that this, this is where he belongs. The constant whisper of the Obscurus between his ribs is quiet, as shocked as Credence is by the warm glory of this magical world.

The bakery is obvious, standing proudly just a bit away from the Leaky Cauldron. A sign over the door proudly reads “Kowalski’s” in gold lettering. Credence is thrilled by the sight of the gleaming windows and the displays of beautiful breads and pastries in the windows. There are a few people inside, and a bell over the door jangles merrily as Newt pushes open the door and comes in.

The smell of good things, of cinnamon and sugar and fruit and baking bread, fills the air. Credence stares at the magical creatures built of pastry—Nifflers, Occamies, Erumpets, even Jackalopes!—and at all the rest of the delightful goods. Baskets of croissants, turnovers and small hand pies in the glass cases, trays of cookies and eclairs, whole pans of rolls drizzled with icing…Credence’s mouth is watering already.

And over all of it there’s a certain magic, not the stuff from a wand but something that Credence instinctively knows to be much more powerful. It’s love—love of people, love of art, love of bounty and good food. It’s exactly as magical as Credence would expect a bakery on Diagon Alley to be.

Behind the counter is a well-dressed house-elf. Her eyes get wide when she sees Newt and Credence and she smiles. She hops down off the stool she must presumably stand on and comes around the counter. “Mr. Scamander!” she chirps.

“It’s good to see you, Millie,” Newt says warmly. He gestures at Credence. “This is Credence.”

Millie—as the house-elf is presumably named—gives him a friendly wave. “Welcome to Diagon Alley!” she says. “I’ll tell Mr. Kowalski you’ve arrived!”

Newt smiles at Credence as the little house-elf trots back into the kitchen. “I helped her find work here,” he explains. “Accidentally freed by her family and needed work rather badly. Jacob’s happy for the help—there’s another, Hubert, working here too…”

The kitchen door bursts open and out come Jacob, apron and hands floury, a beatific smile on his face, and Credence breaks into a grin. “Credence!” Jacob says, and next thing Credence knows he’s engulfed in a hug. He finds his eyes inexplicably full of tears as he squeezes Jacob tightly.

From the kitchen there’s a clatter and then Queenie bursts out the door too, flinging her arms around Credence as Jacob lets go. “It’s so good to see you!” she exclaims. Credence nods and opens his mind as wide as he can so Queenie can hear just how happy he is right now and, when she pulls back, she’s got tears in her eyes too.

And right on Queenie’s heels is Tina, who hugs Credence with fierce older-sister protectiveness. “I missed you,” she says.

“I missed you too,” Credence says, staggered. “All of you.”

There’s a sort of applause from the other customers in the bakery and Credence feels himself turn bright red. Queenie laughs and waves, and Jacob bows ironically. Tina takes Credence by the hand and pulls him into the kitchen and through another door, up a flight of stairs, and into a proper apartment above. The others follow, chatting and laughing. Tina deposits Credence on the sofa and he sits with what feels like a very heavy thud, staring at his friends in a sort of shock. This being out of the suitcase, being in Diagon Alley…it’s incredible.

“Well, like what you see?” Jacob asks with a wink, gesturing around.

“I _love_ it,” Credence says. He feels like his eyes will fall out of his head. “This is amazing!”

Newt looks a little puffed with pride. Of course he would be—this is his sphere, his home. Why wouldn’t he be proud? “Diagon Alley is famous,” he says.

“And it’s real nice to live on,” Queenie says. “We’ve settled in well and even if we’re still odd, we’re no more odd than anyone else!”

They chat on for a while, until Credence remembers that he brought something extra. “Oh—Jacob, I forgot to mention, I brought some things for you.”

Jacob’s eyebrows climb a bit. “For me?”

“I have a garden problem,” Credence admits with a laugh, “and I think Percival might drop me off a mountain if we don’t get rid of some of the raspberry preserves before I bring in the next harvest. And I brought tomato preserves, too, and other things. For you. For the bakery.”

Queenie glances at the suitcase. “All in there?”

Credence laughs. “We might want to get help moving it all out.”

“Thanks,” Jacob says, looking pleased. “Can’t wait to test it. Raspberry turnovers?”

“Sounds like a dream,” Tina says. She grins. “We can eat those while we conspire.”

At the word ‘conspire’, Credence suddenly remembers why he’s there. “Right, about that,” he says. “What were you talking about in your letter, Queenie?”

The other four exchange distinctly nervous looks. Finally, Queenie speaks. “Credence…three weeks ago, I took a wrong turn into Knockturn Alley…and someone slipped me a Portkey that took me straight to Grindelwald.”

He doesn’t exactly have time to think. The Obscurus doesn’t give him a chance. There’s a ripping sensation and Credence screams as he pitches forward and everything else in the room blasts back from him in a shockwave that shakes the building. He’s on his knees in the middle of the screaming torrent of magic, ripping and tearing, and he can’t manage to pull it in—

Arms close around his shoulders. Tina. “Credence! _Credence_!”

“I can’t…” He forces out the words, twisting to bury what’s left of his face in her shoulder.

“You’re safe,” Tina says, close enough that she doesn’t have to shout. “He’s not here. He _isn’t_. We’re safe, Credence, do you hear me?”

He nods. Back together. He has to get back together. He closes his eyes and _pulls_.

Slowly, too slowly, the tide of darkness reels itself back in. Credence settles it between his ribs again, inside his bones, reminding it—himself—that he’s safe. That his friends are all right, that Queenie is whole and in one piece.

By the time the air clears he’s still shaking, trembling in Tina’s arms. She doesn’t let go of him, for which Credence is grateful. “Good,” she says, and Credence feels a kiss just above his ear. “Keep calm as you can, okay?”

“Right,” Credence says. His voice is raw.

“It’ll be fine, everyone will assume it’s a potion gone wrong,” Queenie assures. “There are bangs and explosions all the time around here, you know…” By the sound of things, she and Newt are putting the room to rights.

Jacob sits down next to him, a hand on Credence’s leg. “That happen often?”

“No,” Credence says. “It’s been…five months since it got out during a nightmare. Longer since something like…this.”

“That’s good,” Jacob says meditatively. Credence turns his head to look and realizes that Jacob’s definitely looking at his arms. Well. Conversations for later, then. “You good to hear the rest?”

“Yes,” Credence says. Tina’s stroking his back and dear God, it feels good. Silently, he considers a piece of Scripture he often contemplates in moments like these: _Have mercy upon me, O Lord; for I am weak: O Lord, heal me; for my bones are vexed._ As usual, there’s not exactly a clear reply from the Almighty. “Tell me what’s happening.”

They tell him everything. About the visit with Grindelwald and how he’d asked Queenie to spy on him, and how she’d said yes just to get out of the building. About what she found on the table, papers with equations and magical formulae that she didn’t understand and records of impossible amounts of energy released by some spell. About his apparent interest in Dumbledore. About how nobody else in the world knows this is happening, and that they’re utterly alone in it.

“And that’s why I wrote to all of you,” Queenie says, running out of steam at last. She’s perched on the edge of the sofa with Newt’s arm gingerly but firmly around her shoulders. “I thought you ought to know. Jacob and I can’t do this alone…”

Credence summons up all his strength and sits upright, though he very much wants to lie down on the floor and cry. He can’t afford to do that now. They need him to be strong and forward-thinking and even bold. “You don’t have to,” he says, looking her in the eye. “We’re all here, and when I get back to Russia I’m sure that Percival will have things to say, too. I wouldn’t be surprised if he packed up and came right back to you.”

Queenie laughs, breathless and wet with tears, and Credence rises up on his knees to hug her too. She puts her arms around him, holding on tight, and Credence wonders how in the hell she’s held up so long as Grindelwald’s pawn. He’d done much worse. Most people don’t survive the experience. “I’ve only met him once,” Queenie says, sniffling into Credence’s shoulder. “In person, anyway. He’s sent a couple letters, not asking much, and it ain’t hard to lie in a letter…”

“Still…you’re amazing,” Credence says sincerely. She nods and he squeezes her tightly, knowing she can hear his admiration in his thoughts. Benefits of having a Legilimens for a friend.

Dinner is unusually quiet, by their collective standards. Everyone is quite subdued. It’s a good dinner, and Credence doesn’t have to try to be complimentary. The conspiring is put on hold, for the moment, and that’s a good thing when there comes a sudden knock at the door.

Everyone freezes. The shadows hiss and a faint roar is in Credence’s ears.

“Suitcase?” Tina breathes.

“No,” Credence says, forcing himself to breathe calmly. “It might just be someone asking for a cup of sugar, I don’t know…”

Jacob gets up. “I’ll go,” he says unnecessarily, and steps out of the kitchen.

The door opens and they clearly hear a deep voice ask, “Am I correct in believing this is the Kowalski residence?” Newt’s eyes go very wide at the voice and he turns toward the kitchen door.

“Yeah,” Jacob says. “And what are you doing here, if you don’t mind me asking? Didn’t think we were expecting visitors.”

“I have come to see about an explosion that was reported in your shop in the early hours of the afternoon,” the voice says.

Credence stops breathing.

He imagines arms around him, strong arms, holding him together. _Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…though I walk…Yea, the valley…death’s shadow…_ He can’t let it loose now. He can’t let it be seen. He _must_ control it.

Under the table his nails bite into his forearms, forcing the Obscurus _down_. Right now—any means necessary. Any of them. His eyes stray to a knife in arm’s reach and he wonders if he can slip it off the table without anyone noticing that he did it. Or maybe he doesn’t need it, maybe he can just keep it together, the shadows are still and things are okay.

Clearly, Credence has missed something, because next thing he knows there’s another man in the room and Newt is rising from his seat, greeting him with enthusiasm. The man is nearly as tall as Newt, wearing a pointed hat and flowing robes in a matching shade of dark blue. His red hair and beard, with faintest streaks of white, are long enough to be tucked into his belt. Behind his round horn-rimmed spectacles, his eyes positively twinkle.

“Everyone,” Newt says, turning around, “I’m pleased to introduce you to England’s greatest wizard, Professor Albus Dumbledore.”

Credence is the last to stand. Tina and Queenie shake hands with a businesslike air, and Credence does too. He’s sure that Dumbledore notices the fact that Credence only murmurs “Charmed…” as he shakes hands, rather than offering his name. But the wizard doesn’t comment.

He seems at once too large for and at home at the kitchen table. Newt is deferential and admiring, while Queenie wears her ever-present smile, Tina is utterly poker-faced, and Jacob is outright suspicious. For his part Credence retreats into the well-worn and easy mask of the boy with his head down on the street corner, terrified of everyone who might look at him. It’s a safe mask, one he knows well, a comforting one that takes no energy.

Oh, how he wishes Percival were here.

“I should like very much to pass over the small talk,” Dumbledore says pleasantly. “There is much to discuss today, I think.”

“Yes, sir,” Newt says. “You mentioned an explosion—?”

“I did,” Dumbledore says. His gaze travels over them all and Credence feels a frisson at the touch of his eyes. It’s like being looked at by…no, no, nothing like that at all. Dumbledore, Credence knows, is a great wizard, a good wizard, perhaps the _best_ wizard. And he is great and good not only in terms of his skill in magic, but in what he does. He is charitable, kind; the man who managed to let Newt keep his wand, who brings lost children to Hogwarts, who is the staunchest defender of witches and wizards the whole world round.

Still, Credence can’t shake the feeling that Dumbledore’s gaze is more terrible than Grindelwald’s.

Queenie’s voice is sweet and innocent, matching her wide eyes. This, too, is a mask: the mask of the bubbly girl without a brain, the one that hides everything else that Queenie is. “Oh, but Mr. Dumbledore, why us?” she asks. “There’re bangs and explosions all the time around here, you know, potions going wrong and things like that…”

“I have good reason to believe that this explosion was not a potion, Miss Goldstein,” Dumbledore says. He’s so…mild. It’s causing Credence more than a little stress.

“Well, then, what was it?” Tina says. She folds her arms. “We were at dinner and you just came barging in—are you accusing us of something?”

“Good gracious, no!” Dumbledore looks surprised. “I am not here in an official capacity, you understand. I am here on a matter of personal curiosity.”

Jacob’s hand settles on Credence’s leg, warm and grounding. Credence tries to remember how to breathe. “What kind of ‘personal curiosity’?” Jacob asks.

Dumbledore looks at Credence, steady and kindly and knowing. “If I am correct in all my suppositions,” he says, “then I am now speaking to Credence Barebone, the world’s oldest living Obscurial. Am I wrong?”

Credence freezes for an airless moment.

What has he got to lose now?

He drops the mask. He straightens his shoulders and looks Dumbledore in the eye, never letting the shadows waver. His arms burn as if he’s sliced them open, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. “No,” he says, “you’re not.”

“It is my pleasure, Mr. Barebone,” Dumbledore says.

“Just Credence.”

“Credence, then,” Dumbledore corrects. “I’d like to extend you a warm welcome to England, and to Diagon Alley in particular.”

Credence doesn’t smile. He’s aware of the way that all his friends sit, tense and ready for something to shatter. Nothing is going to break, not now. He’s _ready_. “Newt already did that,” he says. “I don’t need another welcome. Why are you here? Is this about the accident earlier?”

“It is,” Dumbledore says. His gaze has sharpened, narrowed: he’s taking Credence’s measure, and Credence hopes that Dumbledore sees the right thing. “When your presence was noticed in Diagon Alley, I advised caution. You were no immediate threat. After the explosion, it was presumed that something had gone wrong—and yet there was none of the destruction that we would have expected.”

“I’m no danger to anyone unless I want to be,” Credence bites out.

Tina leans into the conversation. “So you’re here about something that didn’t do any harm. I don’t really buy it,” she says coldly. “How many Aurors are waiting outside the door?”

“None,” Dumbledore says. “I have brought no one from the Ministry.”

Credence sees Queenie’s eyes narrow just a little, but she says nothing. He just waits and watches. He can’t be of use right now, or of real help.

“Then why are you here, sir?” Newt asks. Credence is surprised by his tone—sharp, bold, angry, the kind of tone he takes with people he genuinely doesn’t like.

Dumbledore leans back a bit in his chair. “I am here because I wish to prove to the Ministry and to the rest of the world that you, Credence, are no threat to wizarding society,” he says. “That you were shocked into releasing your power is no surprise—but it is a surprise that you were able to rein it in. I have great hope that, with sufficient proof, we can clear your name to all of society.”

Credence can only stare.

“Well, that’s a real favor,” Jacob says. “How about the strings?”

“There are none,” Dumbledore says. There’s an inexpressible sadness in his face, something deep and old, the kind of sadness that was inflicted so long ago that it’s become a permanent part of him. “I have a personal connection to Credence’s case—a long story, and not one I wish to discuss now. But let it stand that I wish to help Credence for his sake, and to alleviate a very old guilt for which I can never truly atone.”

He looks away. Credence can’t hold up his defensive anger in the face of this. He just…can’t. He knows what it’s like to carry such guilt. “All right,” he says. “What…what do I have to do for this proof?”

The explanation takes an hour, with all the questions. Dumbledore wants to give Credence tests of his power and control, to have his wand—a Chinese creation—examined by Ollivander, have certain of his memories examined, among other things. It will be arduous, but by the end, Dumbledore believes he’ll have sufficient proof to begin the process of having Credence’s name officially cleared by the International Confederation of Wizards.

When Dumbledore takes his leave, Credence is so shaken that the only thing he can do is lie face-down on the carpet in the living room. Tina curls up on the couch with her head on Newt’s lap, while Jacob occupies the armchair and Queenie sits on the floor.

“What do you think of that?” Queenie asks at last.

“I like it,” Credence says, muffled by the carpet. “I mean…”

Newt sounds thoughtful. “I saw nothing wrong.”

“Neither did I,” Queenie says.

Tina sounds curious. “Come to that—you didn’t see anything. Why didn’t you talk?”

That’s…a good point. Credence raises his head to look at Queenie. “Didn’t want to give the game away, about Grindelwald and spying and all that,” Queenie says. Her eyes are narrow as she stares at the window, beyond which the sky darkens over the city. “Better he thinks I’m a silly girl. Something ain’t right here and you all know it. And besides, I was listening to the man outside.”

“ _The man outside_?” Credence demands.

Queenie gets up and walks to the window, sliding the curtains shut. “Ain’t the first time we’ve been watched by one of Grindelwald’s men,” she says coldly, “and it ain’t gonna be the last. But Grindelwald will know Dumbledore was here, and that you were here, and I guess I’m going to have some real explaining to do later.”

That certainly puts a damper on the evening. Queenie cites a headache and goes to bed, while Newt and Tina vanish into the suitcase to look after the animals. Credence borrows the kitchen table to scrawl out a letter to Percival and take down some immediate thoughts on Dumbledore for the essay he’s certain to write when his vague thoughts coalesce. Jacob is putting bread in the refrigerator to rise overnight, for early-morning baking for the family, and when he’s done he sits down at the table across from Credence.

“How you doing, kid?” Jacob asks.

Credence sighs and absently shoves his pen behind his ear, looking up from the messy page of notes. “I’m sure something. You?”

Jacob chuckles. “About the same. But you know I ain’t talking about Dumbledore’s visit.”

“Oh.” Credence looks down at the table again. “I…”

“Looked pretty hard at that knife,” Jacob says, quiet.

“I did.”

Jacob doesn’t speak for a moment. “You’re still doing that.”

“Only…only when it gets bad,” Credence admits. “Not often. It…Percival and I had a bad fight a couple months ago and…it happened then. But I’ve been working and it’s so much better, Jacob, I…”

“Hey,” Jacob says, cutting off the desperate flow of words. “You’re still healing up your arms after, right? Not just letting it scar?”

Credence twitches in surprise. He meets Jacob’s eyes and sees only open, honest compassion. No judgement. “…still healing them,” he confirms. “I don’t need more scars.”

“Good,” Jacob says. “I can’t stop you from doing it, except to say I’d rather you Fire-Call than hurt yourself, but if you have to, just…be safe.”

The thought of that—of _being safe_ when they’re talking about Credence literally slicing open his arms to relieve the tension of the Obscurus and stopping himself from hurting people—is so ridiculous that Credence can’t help a laugh. He drops his head onto his arms on the table, laughing. After a moment, Jacob joins in. Credence reaches out blindly, arm stretching across the table, and feels Jacob’s hand hold tight to his.

“I’m trying,” Credence says after a while, tilting his head so he can see Jacob. “I’m…really working on it. I don’t want to, and I’m getting better.”

“This was a shock,” Jacob says meditatively. “Big one, too. Don’t blame you at all. But promise me, Credence—if you want to do that while you’re here, come talk to me first. Doesn’t matter what else is happening, okay?”

Credence blinks slowly. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll find you. I promise.”

He doesn’t have to do this alone, he reminds himself when he sits by the window and watches the night life of Diagon Alley happen below the flat. He has friends. It’s not just Credence alone, and right now it’s not just Credence and Percival. It’s all of them. All of them, together, as a family.

**Author's Note:**

> Percival’s line about “when you come back down” is, uh, a reference to Nickel Creek’s “When You Come Back Down”. It was an accident, pointed out by a friend. I didn’t even realize I did it! -_- But it works!
> 
> Credit to EqualOpportunityReader1 for the suggestion that Credence bring the surplus to the bakery!
> 
> Credence recites Psalm 6:2 to himself.
> 
> Niche cultures are fun: [on the origin of the poker face.](https://www.pokertube.com/article/the-meaning-and-history-of-the-poker-face-414)


End file.
